


Apple Cider and the Circus

by thatsrightdollface



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Fluff, M/M, Slow Romance, really elaborate hide-and-seek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22910311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsrightdollface/pseuds/thatsrightdollface
Summary: The circus came to Shuichi Saihara’s city every year, with gaudy checkerboard-print train cars and sugary grape syrup smells in the air.  It brought Kokichi Oma with it, every year so far.
Relationships: Harukawa Maki/Momota Kaito, Momota Kaito & Saihara Shuichi, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi, and a little confirmed, lots of mentioned friendships
Comments: 16
Kudos: 183





	Apple Cider and the Circus

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!!! I hope you enjoy this fic, if you read it. :D I started this a million years ago, ahahaha (last summer, I think.)
> 
> This is the first fic I've posted in 2020!!! Gasp. I feel a little bad it's taken me so long, tbh. 
> 
> Thank you!

The circus came to Shuichi Saihara’s city every year, with gaudy checkerboard-print train cars and sugary grape syrup smells in the air. They called themselves the D.I.C.E. Family Circus, even though D.I.C.E. was, of course, an acronym and not anybody’s last name at all. Nobody knew what the acronym stood for, not even among the circus-y types — Shuichi’d asked around. At first it had seemed like this one clown knew the answer, but then Shuichi overheard him giving someone else a totally different —yet somehow equally outlandish — explanation. So… possibly not?

That _particular_ clown came with the circus every year, Shuichi had noticed. Sometimes he was working one of the carnival game booths, swindling jerks out of money and discreetly knocking over extra pins or something to help little kids win the especially good stuffed animals. Other times he was a part of the show, drinking sparkly purple fire like soda and letting other clowns drop probably-fake pianos on him so he could somersault out of the way just in time. One year he even played the ringmaster, in a spangly checkerboard suit and tails. That was the year Shuichi had first learned his name – Kokichi Oma, apparently – and also the year this same Ringmaster Oma claimed he’d been running the show the whole dang time. Behind the scenes, you know. A secret ringmaster, who may have been the only person in the whole world who could say whether D.I.C.E. stood for anything at all.

Shuichi might not have seemed like a “Let’s Go to the Circus” type, from the outside. But he liked disappearing into the crowds, swallowed up by other people’s laughter and clattering rollercoaster sounds, and he liked the drifting smell of popcorn, and he liked being able to go around with groups of friends without being expected to say much. And, you know, the part of him that still itched to solve puzzles after so many years helping out his uncle’s detective agency liked finding where exactly Kokichi Oma would be _this_ time. Shuichi had found him every year, so far, even that one time Kokichi’d had a cold and wound up raking old popcorn with one of those medicinal half-masks on. Kokichi had flippy purple hair and a quick, sing-song voice. He sometimes winked when Shuichi met his eyes – he sometimes hopped over to drag Shuichi to the foot of some terrifying ride or another. Kokichi always cackled, on rollercoasters. Shuichi had known _that_ before he’d learned his name. 

They talked, sometimes, from year to year. Shuichi learned a little about what other cities the D.I.C.E. Family Circus passed through; Kokichi quoted newspaper articles he came across about cases Shuichi and his uncle solved. “Attaboy, Mr. Detective!” Kokichi said. “When I get murdered, I’ll know _just_ who to haunt until you avenge me.”

“ _When_ you get murdered?” Shuichi had asked, smiling that flustered, baffled smile he found himself wearing so often around the infamous possible-ringmaster Kokichi Oma. Kokichi just ruffled his hair and said he had to get back to juggling knives or one of his minions was gonna mock him relentlessly for missing another cue. Some secret ringmaster he was, always missing cues, right?

This year, the D.I.C.E. Family Circus came around to Shuichi’s town later than usual. They were a summertime-experience, generally, meant for long warm nights and fireworks. There were dead leaves somersaulting over the pavement now, though, and Shuichi’s friend Maki was wearing a scarf her boyfriend Kaito’s grandparents had made for her. Shuichi had prepared a few thermoses with apple cider before they headed out that night, too. It’d felt appropriate, like the jack-o-lanterns set up and already waiting along people’s porches, or the smell of campfires and sizzling funnel cakes as they neared the circus. If he were completely honest with himself, Shuichi had remembered that his friend Himiko wasn’t going to be able to make it that night. He’d remembered, but then he’d gone and prepared enough cider that there would’ve been some for her, anyway. 

Or, possibly some for Kokichi Oma, if Shuichi managed to find him. Who are we kidding, though? _Of course_ Shuichi expected to find him. After so many visits watching Kokichi grin like a cat with canary feathers caught between his teeth, knowing he’d surprised Shuichi again and again, maybe this time Shuichi would be able to see what it was like to shove a gift into Kokichi’s hands. See what _he_ looked like, caught by surprise. And not just pretending for the show, either, with pie dripping off his face or something like that. 

Shuichi and his friends did their usual rounds, seeing how the circus had transformed itself while off traveling the rest of the world. It always came back a little different, after all. Maki won a handful of glow-in-the-dark necklaces at a sharpshooting simulation booth — (“What are you, an assassin?” the clown guarding it quipped, and when Maki deadpanned “Yes,” well, a bunch of people snickered. Even Kaito, who had set one of those necklaces Maki won over his forehead like a glowy crown. Shuichi, though, had a flash of suspicion he tried shoving down and away. That happened sometimes, around Maki. What if...? No. No way!)

They watched the tumbling show, too, and participated in a “Can You Survive the Circus Tent of Death?” escape room, and ate too-sweet crepes wrapped in black and white checkerboard paper. Kaito insisted on riding the Tower of Doom-type ride multiple times, explaining it away with something about rockets and astronaut practice. Kaito worked at a gym downtown, generally, but he’d been dead-set on becoming an astronaut back in high school. Maybe it was a joke when he brought it up nowadays, but Shuichi didn’t think he could be _completely_ kidding. 

Kaito watched the stars, pointing out constellations to Maki and Tenko and Rantaro and anybody who’d listen. Maki watched Kaito’s face, tender and serious and occasionally grabbing him protectively by the elbow to pull him out of people’s way as they hurried around the circus. And Shuichi watched the crowds, trying to hunt down Kokichi Oma. Another year, another circus, another disguise. Right? 

That extra thermos of apple cider felt heavier and heavier in Shuichi’s bag as the night wore on. Rantaro remarked on it once, when Shuichi left the bag with him while getting dragged on yet another trip up the Tower of Doom. “That’s really thoughtful of you, bringing extra cider,” Rantaro had said, but then he must have noticed some sort of look on Shuichi’s face. “I haven’t seen him, either,” Rantaro offered. “We all keep an eye out too, you know.”

Shuichi tried to play innocent — just some awkward coughing into his hand, flushed bright red and glancing furtively around as if _this_ had to be the moment when Kokichi’d suddenly appear, right when it was most embarrassing for him... but the only clowns around were almost-strangers, who had never whispered coyly in Shuichi’s ear as they road a rollercoaster together, or skipped up to him to offer a handshake when they very clearly had a joybuzzer waiting in their palm. 

Rantaro gave a lazy, apologetic salute, slinging Shuichi’s bag over his shoulder, and Kaito clambered back into the Tower of Doom line, chatting about some loud guy who came to the gym he worked for every now and then, often screaming about the state of the toilets. Some of the clowns controlling the Tower of Doom were wearing masks, but Shuichi could tell they weren’t, you know, _his_ clown. That one over there was short enough, sure, but had too much visible muscle and differently shaped eyes. That other one was pretty tall, and yeah — Kokichi _had_ worn heeled shoes around the circus before, but he would never have been eating such a bland health food kinda protein bar.

They stayed for hours. That wasn’t unusual — Shuichi and his friends always stayed for hours, every year, without fail. But this year, the air was autumn-sharp and cold, and Shuichi’s bag was heavy with apple cider, and Kokichi Oma never appeared. Kaito had an early shift the next morning and had to get home or he might oversleep again; Tenko had to check in on Himiko, home sick like she was. The night would wind down to an end, eventually. Shuichi was some of his friends’ ride back into town, after all. 

It wasn’t easy, telling himself that it didn’t matter much if he couldn’t find Kokichi that year, but Shuichi tried anyway. The thought tasted sour and desperate, dry as the protein bar that Tower of Doom-operating clown’d had on him. If Kokichi wasn’t here this year, did that mean he’d left the circus, or something? Would he really just disappear, without saying goodbye, without... ah, Shuichi didn’t know. Maybe Kokichi did stuff like this in all the towns the D.I.C.E. Family Circus passed through. Picking somebody to mess with. Making them feel like they were something special. 

That was a pretty horrible thought, too... more horrible than Shuichi would’ve expected it to be. The circus was a once-a-year thing, a break from reality, a funny lie about what life could be like that came and went in a handful of days. But maybe there was a reason Shuichi kept grape soda in his uncle’s fridge at the detective office, even if he probably wasn’t ever going to drink it. Maybe there was a reason he’d politely declined when Kaito had offered to set him up on a date with one of his coworkers at the gym. 

They made it almost all the way to the parking lot before Shuichi asked his friends to wait for him, just a second, please, and turned on his heel back into the circus. He felt sick to his stomach, a bit, and his hands were sweaty. Shaking, as he gripped the strap of his bag. He didn’t stop to see if any of his friends gave him knowing looks, or anything like that. He didn’t present his stamped hand to the clown at the admissions kiosk, but... curiously enough... nobody questioned him at all. 

Shuichi wasn’t sure exactly who to ask, really, or how he’d actually go about phrasing any of his questions, but he figured the Information desk was a pretty good bet. At least then he would’ve _tried_. At least then, if Kokichi was still with the circus, he could get a thermos of cider after all.

Kokichi would probably think it was so pathetic, that Shuichi cared enough about him to bring a silly little gift like that all this way. To seek him out, despite knowing almost nothing about him. To leave all his friends twiddling their thumbs near the parking lot, possibly taking bets on whether Kokichi had been waiting in plain sight the entire time. 

“Excuse me,” Shuichi started, refusing to meet the clown at the Information desk’s eyes, that thermos of apple cider clenched tight in his hands, “I was wondering... uh, is it okay to ask about circus employees, here?”

“Depends what you’re asking,” said the clown behind the Information desk. 

“He’s — I’m not actually sure what he usually does here. Kind of everything? From year to year?” Shuichi took a breath. Now or never. “Kokichi Oma. Do you know him?”

“Mmm,” said the clown behind the information desk. “He’s a troublemaker, that Oma. Pffft. The kind that’s usually up to no good, you know what I mean? What do you need _him_ for?”

“Could you give this to him for me, please?” Shuichi asked, setting the thermos carefully on the table between them. Maybe his voice was a little cold, hearing this particular clown thought so badly of Kokichi. Maybe he was feeling protective, like the way Maki used to get when their old classmates had teased Kaito for being naive and loud and... according to some people... a little stupid, sometimes. “It’s cider. He can keep the thermos if he wants. Could you... could you — I don’t know — tell him Shuichi Saihara missed him this year? It might not mean anything to him. But. If you don’t mind. Please.”

The clown at the information desk laughed, then. She picked up a checkerboard walkie-talkie and chirped, “Mr. Detective misses you, Boss!” into it. She twirled one of her long pigtails in her hand, and Shuichi finally met her eyes. They were soft. Friendly, and outlined in thick purple paint. And she was calling Kokichi _“Boss?”_

Was he... like... _actually_ secret ringmaster around here, or something?

“He does?! You promise?” Kokichi’s voice crackled, on the other end of the walkie-talkie. “Wait. He can’t still hear me, can he?”

“Loud and clear, actually,” the clown behind the Information desk giggled, and Kokichi muttered, “Shit. I mean shoot — family-friendly establishment. I mean... hi, Shuichi!”

The clown behind the information desk held the walkie-talkie forward, in case Shuichi wanted to say something back. “Hi?” he offered. He _wanted_ to ask where Kokichi was, of course. Why he hadn’t shown up. Whether the excitement in his voice was genuine, thinking maybe Shuichi honestly missed him. 

“Listen, Shuichi, uh — one of our acrobats had an accident earlier today and we’ve had to spend a lil time in the hospital. I’m fine! _I’m_ fine. But I can’t exactly leave ‘em here, you know? I need to make sure everybody’s taken care of.” Kokichi sounded chipper, but Shuichi could tell he was pulling that voice on like a dramatic cape at the start of a magic show. 

Shuichi mouthed the words, “Is he really okay?” to the clown behind the Information desk, and she made a “so-so” gesture with the hand that wasn’t holding her walkie-talkie. 

“Aw... it’s a pain I didn’t get to hide somewhere for you,” Kokichi drawled. “We came closer to your birthday this year, so I had a gift ready and everything. Not even lying!”

Shuichi had mentioned his birthday to Kokichi once, when he’d been disguised as a fortune teller and asked about his zodiac information to do a “Proper Ultra-Thorough Reading.” He hadn’t expected Kokichi to remember. Why would he have needed to remember something like that?

And why were Shuichi’s insides settling down, hearing this particular clown alive and well? Kokichi’s voice was a little choppy and strange through the walkie-talkie, but still as familiar as sunshine and sticky popsicle syrup and June coming every year. 

“You hid really well this time, Kokichi,” Shuichi said, reaching out to press the walkie-talkie button himself. “I mean... I almost didn’t find you.”

“Well, let’s say this was always the plan, then,” Kokichi said. “I _am_ the diabolical secret ringmaster of D.I.C.E. Family Circus, after all.” He paused, next, for a long second. Shuichi tried imagining what kind of expression Kokichi might be wearing right about then, but it was hard to picture it. He’d been larger than life for so long, it was funny to hear him sounding small. “If you want, I _can_ give you the name of the hospital where I am... or I could come meet you at the circus when I’m able to get back. If you really miss me.”

“ _And_ you could finally give him your cell number, Boss,” the clown behind the Information desk interrupted. She rolled her eyes at Shuichi, as if they were in on some sort of shared secret. 

Shuichi reached out to press the walkie-talkie button again. He cleared his throat. “I... do miss you,” he said. As strange as this whole scenario was. “And yes. To all of it.”

“Even if I never tell you what D.I.C.E. stands for?” Kokichi asked. It was a cocky line, but... unless he was faking, again... he sounded a little shy for it, this time. That was why Shuichi had originally talked to him, you know. Asking what D.I.C.E. stood for. That was the first lie Kokichi’d ever told him, and the first game they’d ever played.

“Maybe especially then,” Shuichi said, and before he left that Information booth he got a clown’s number scribbled in sparkly purple pen across his hand. It had only taken so many games of hide-and-seek. 


End file.
